


Tapping On the Window With Your Thimble

by voleuse



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: "Honeymoon" was a concept at odds with, really, most of her life.





	Tapping On the Window With Your Thimble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngelQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/gifts).



> Set slightly after “The Marriage of Mary Russell.”

**i. _candy in a pink-and-green-striped bag, or a jack-knife_**  
It was, Mary found, much simpler to plan a chapel burglary when oneself and one’s confederates were standing in the establishment in question. Under the guise of recounting the wedding caper accurately, Mary walked over to the chapel with their surprise guests, feeling thankful that a stroll was better suited to the task, though she switched back to her sturdier shoes as a precaution.

Stepping into the chapel, despite having only acquainted herself with the environs for a brief time, felt like a homecoming. While John and Mrs Hudson circumnavigated the space, sharing the tale with the others, Mary and Billy paused in front of the portrait. Mary considered the fragility of the canvas, the likelihood of inclement weather, the alternate possibilities for egress, and knew, from the way his eyes flicked from point to point, that Billy was doing the same.

When the others finally joined them, Mary found herself unsurprised to see some eyes were as dampened as her own. Mrs Hudson dabbed a handkerchief across her right cheek. “Can you just imagine those two,” she murmured to Mary.

Mary nodded, then reached past Mrs Hudson to tap Mycroft on the wrist. “Thank you,” she said, her gaze shifting to Holmes, who was chatting with Lestrade at the center of the nave. 

“Yes, well.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “It was,” he began, then paused long enough that Mary found it a bit alarming. “I’m glad to be here,” he finally concluded, and that admission of emotion made Mary doubly determined to bring the portrait to the everyday access of those who felt its loss most keenly.

And then Holmes looked over at her, and she allowed herself the luxury of bridal distraction.

**ii. _they always said tea was such a comfort_**  
To Mary, the idea of a “honeymoon” was at odds to, really, most everything in her life, and doubly so for Holmes. (Though, she mused, those two lives were now permanently and legally entwined, an idea that she found enormously and satisfyingly complex.) As he returned to their sleeper car, though, after (she assumed) he had triply reviewed the passengers and staff accompanying them in first class, and slid the door closed behind him, she found herself feeling rather out of breath.

“The couple from Cornwall are most certainly carrying counterfeit papers,” he said, settling down next to Mary on the cushioned bench. 

“Surely not jewel thieves,” Mary said, somewhat giddy as she joked. “Or foreign agents.”

Holmes peered at her, his brow furrowing for just a moment before the corner of his mouth quirked up to acknowledge the jest. “Nothing we need concern ourselves with until we reach the border,” he allowed.

Mary slipped her right hand into Holmes’s left. He rubbed circles against her palm with his thumb, then used his other hand to slowly draw her glove off. It was an entirely mundane act, but when punctuated with Holmes standing up and almost lunging to bolt the door….

Well.

*

The hotel in Prague was unglamorous but neat, and within walking distance of a good number of archives. Their suite had a satisfactory writing desk and a lovely view, though Holmes did seem a touch sheepish when they discovered the hotel staff had gone to the trouble of tossing rose petals about bedroom.

“Ah,” Mary said. 

Holmes nodded. “Indeed.”

The staff seemed not at all surprised when they appeared in the dining room a bit past the proper hour, and Mary’s hair being disheveled and somewhat damp, besides.

*

After four days of bliss which Mary found herself unable to properly articulate, she realized she was entirely behind her correspondence. It took her a great deal of willpower to rise from bed and rummage through her valise for the necessary materials, as well as to call down for a late breakfast service.

Properly fed and sipping a surprisingly good cup of coffee, Mary had almost concluded her letter to Mrs Hudson, which detailed the capture of the two Bulgarian forgers (the Cornwall accents, though broadly acceptable, ended up being the undoing of their plot), when Holmes emerged from the bedroom. Mary managed to bring the sentence to its conclusion before setting it aside. She raised to her face to Holmes as he drew up beside her, and he dropped a kiss against her forehead, then her lips.

“The _Times_ is by the coffee,” she informed him, and he settled on the seat across from her, watching as she returned to her letter. Once she had properly written her salutations, she looked up to find him solemn, only a hint of their recent joy in his eyes. She held his gaze, and let her own smile loose.

Two sharp raps against the door interrupted their confabulation, and Mary adjusted the folds of her dressing gown as she stood. “I hope you don’t mind, Holmes,” she said, extending her hands to him as she rose. “I’d written an acquaintance from the local constabulary, to let him know we’d be available to consult starting today.”

It wasn’t often Mary saw her now-husband completely surprised. Given the kiss he bestowed on her, though, she resolved herself to try it more often from then on.

 

**iii. _bring up the last jar of raspberries_**  
The cottage was quiet when they returned, though the hearth was recently swept and lit, and the wrapped loaf of bread Mary found on the block was still radiating heat. Holmes, having relocated their baggage to locations best for unpacking, joined her as she put on the kettle for tea. She sighed, happily, as his hands touched her hips, and his lips grazed the side of her neck. Then, she extricated herself from his grip, and caught his hands instead.

He raised his eyebrows at her, and she led him to the sitting room where, as she had hoped, Billy had set the parcel he’d retrieved a week ago.

“A wedding gift,” Mary said, then stepped back as he picked up the canvas, setting it atop the chaise to unwrap it. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see the portrait herself as it was revealed, but his eyes widening, the way his mouth tightened for a moment, was what she expected. And his smile, as he turned his gaze from his mother’s portrait to Mary, well, that was really everything she had hoped to see.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and headings adapted from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “[ **Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies**](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/childhood-kingdom-where-nobody-dies).”


End file.
